Smiley glanced discreetly at the observation window and at the grey boxes of machinery. He glimpsed once more in Herr Kretzschmar’s little television screen the soundless twining and parting of the white bodies on the other side of the wall. He saw his last question, he recognized its logic, he sensed the wealth it promised. Yet the same lifetime’s instinct that had brought him this far now held him back. Nothing at this moment, no short-term dividend, was worth the risk of alienating Kretzschmar, and closing the road to Otto Leipzig.
‘And Otto gave you no other description of his target?’ Smiley asked, for the sake of asking something; to help him run their conversation down.
‘During the evening he came to me once. Up here. He excused himself from the company and came up here to make sure the arrangements were in order. He looked at the screen there and laughed. “Now I have taken him over the edge and he can’t get back,” he said. I did not ask any more. That is all that happened.’
Herr Kretzschmar was writing his instructions for Smiley on a leather-backed jotting pad with gold corners.
‘Otto lives in bad circumstances,’ he said. ‘One cannot alter that. Giving him money does not improve his social standards. He remains-‘ Herr Kretzschmar hesitated – ‘he remains at heart, Herr Max, a gypsy. Do not misunderstand me.’
‘Will you warn him that I am coming?’
‘We have agreed not to use the telephone. The official link between us is completely closed.’ He handed him the sheet of paper. ‘I strongly advise you to take care,’ Herr Kretzschmar said. ‘Otto will be very angry when he hears the old General has been shot.’ He saw Smiley to the door. ‘What did they charge you down there?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Downstairs. How much did they take from you?’
‘A hundred and seventy-five marks for membership.’
‘With the drinks inside, at least two hundred. I’ll tell them to give it back to you at the door. You English are poor these days. Too many trade unions. How’d you like the show?’
‘It was very artistic,’ said Smiley.
Herr Kretzschmar was once again very pleased with Smiley’s answer. He patted Smiley on the shoulder : ‘Maybe you should have more fun in life.’
‘Maybe I should have done,’ Smiley agreed.
‘Greet Otto for me,’ said Herr Kretzschmar.
‘I will,’ Smiley promised.
Herr Kretzschmar hesitated, and the same momentary bewilderment came over him.
‘And you have nothing for me?’ he repeated. ‘No papers, for example?’
‘No.’
‘Pity.’
As Smiley left, Herr Kretzschmar was already at the telephone, attending to other special requests.
He returned to the hotel. A drunken night porter opened the door to him, full of suggestions about the wonderful girls he could send to Smiley’s room. He woke, if he had ever slept, to the chime of church bells and the honk of shipping in the harbour, carried to him on the wind. But there are nightmares that do not go away with daylight, and as he drove northward over the fens in his hired Opel, the terrors which hovered in the mist were the same as those that had plagued him in the night.
SEVENTEEN
The roads were as empty as the landscape. Through breaks in the mist, he glimpsed now a patch of cornfield. now a red farm-house crouched low against the wind. A blue notice said ‘KAI’. He swung sharply into a slip-road, dropping two flights, and saw ahead of him the wharf, a complex of low grey barracks dwarfed by the decks of cargo ships. A red-and-white pole guarded the entrance, there was a customs notice in several languages, but not a human soul in sight. Stopping the car, Smiley got out and walked lightly to the barrier. The red push-button was as big as a saucer. He pressed it and the shriek of its bell set a pair of herons flapping into the white mist. A control tower stood to his left on tubular legs. He heard a door slam and a ring of metal and watched a bearded figure in blue uniform stomp down the iron staircase to the bottom step. The man called to him, ‘What do you want then?’ Not waiting for an answer, he released the boom and waved Smiley through. The tarmac was like a vast bombed area cemented in, bordered by cranes and pressed down by the fogged white sky. Beyond it, the low sea looked too frail for the weight of so much shipping. He glanced in the mirror and saw the spires of a sea town etched like an old print half-way up the page. He glanced out to sea and saw through the mist the line of buoys and winking lamps that marked the water border to East Germany and the start of seven and a half thousand miles of Soviet Empire. That’s where the herons went, he thought. He was driving at a crawl between red-and-white traffic cones towards a container-park heaped with car tyres and logs. ‘Left at the container-park,’ Herr Kretzschmar had said. Obediently, Smiley swung slowly left, looking for an old house, though an old house in this Hanseatic dumping ground seemed a physical impossibility. But Herr Kretzschmar had said, ‘Look for an old house marked “Office”,’ and Herr Kretzschmar did not make errors.